


The Persephone Paradox

by sockpal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Soulmates, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles is 18 I swear, Unconventional Witches, this is unedited please forgive me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27956918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sockpal/pseuds/sockpal
Summary: Distancing himself from the pack isn’t some dramatic spectacle. In fact, it’s a subtle, sneaky thing that happens over the course of a few months. At first, Stiles doesn’t mind; his father is happy he’s staying in more, he catches up on school work, and he manages to do some community service (that isn't torching psychotic werewolves). Life goes on. Pretty mundanely, if you ask him, but that’s okay. Even if Stiles is kind of disappointed.Then he finds a pomegranate and a very peculiar dagger on his windowsill.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 15
Kudos: 143





	The Persephone Paradox

Distancing himself from the pack isn’t some dramatic spectacle. In fact, it’s a subtle, sneaky thing that happens over the course of a few weeks. At first, Stiles doesn’t mind; his father is happy he’s staying in more, he catches up on school work, and he manages to do some community service (that isn't torching psychotic werewolves). So life goes on. Pretty mundanely, if you ask him, but that’s okay. Even if Stiles is kind of disappointed. 

Who could blame him? His life had been hot banshees and hot werewolves (sometimes killer werewolves, but that was unimportant) before “the Parting”, as he called it. 

Stiles huffs out a sigh, tapping his pencil against the desk impatiently. He really didn't like math. 

\---

On Friday night, he stays in. He settles on some Wikipedia articles and even does his homework ahead of time. Still he has too much time on his hands. It shows when it’s seven o’clock and he’s laying on his bed restlessly staring at the ceiling. He fidgets with his phone, but there’s no texts to busy himself with, or really anything. So he lays there, and prays for sleep. 

Eventually, he does doze off-- because Stiles knows that a pomegranate on the windowsill isn’t what he went to sleep with. There’s a faint smell of bleach in the air, so that eradicates the option of calling Scott to be his personal sniffer dog. 

He sits up, and squints. Upon closer inspection, there’s a note beneath it. _A fruit for the Goddess._ Okay, weird. 

Stiles all but jumps back into bed, lifting the note above his head. The writing is elegant, maybe even curly. Black ink, and written on --Stiles brings it to his nose, and a crisp, rosey smell permeates his senses--ah, perfumed paper. It’s nothing short of a love letter. A warped one at that, he thinks, and wrinkles his nose. He flips it, and finds a small, silvery flower taped to the back. 

“Weird.” he mumbles, placing it at his bedside. Next, he picks up the pomegranate. It’s unopened, but there’s a sliver of something at the top. Careful not to tear it open entirely, he pulls gently; just enough to see the hilt. He reaches pinched fingers into the mix, and manages to barely grasp it. The moment his fingers touch it, it’s as if a jolt shoots through him, and he gasps and drops it. This is more difficult than he thought. 

Overall, the object is just weird. The spark he feels is fleeting, and despite the weirdness of the situation, he feels drawn to this energy. Stiles blames his curiosity. He takes the pomegranate to the kitchen to crack it open, and pries it apart with eager hands over the cutting board. A dagger clattered noisily to the surface, blade stained red. An equally soiled paper is wrapped around it, and it’s a pain in the ass to unravel. The juices coats his already-sticky hands. Not the best feeling in the world. 

Stiles frowns. Somebody must have a lot of spare time on their hands. He unfurls the note: _A dagger for the wolf._ The dagger is gilded with little golden swirls, the blade decorated with runes of some sort. Stiles kinda wants to put it under a microscope or something. He wants to know. 

Alrighty, he thinks with a sigh, so an Argent? They’re the only Hunters he knows, and dude, who hated werewolves as much as Argents? ...That’s not right. His brain takes a few steps back. That’s too obvious--it’s wouldn’t be that easy. This guy, whoever they may be, decided to place two notes at his window. They knew about werewolves, assuming from the bleach and ominous message about the wolf or whatever, but fruit for the Goddess? 

His brain clicks the puzzle pieces together. Pomegranates and _Persephone_. It was a weird courting ritual! He nudges the tap on, and rinses his hands. 

This was too strange. Stiles should probably take the dagger to Deaton, maybe even tell Scott or the others about it. It’s only rational. For all he knows, it could be cursed or something. His hand wraps around the hilt, and he _actually_ picks it up and _Stiles just about melts_. There’s a clear buzzing enveloping it, now that it isn’t stifled by fruit innards, and his soul seems to resound to it. The water washes over it, spreading diluted red across the bottom of the basin. Stiles is pretty satisfied with his work. He bags the notes, rinses his hands again, then marches upstairs. 

Probably, _maybe_ , he should call Deaton. But after ten minutes, Stiles forces himself to dial Scott’s number instead. Scott answers on the second ring, “Hello?” 

“Listen Scotty, I need you to ask Deaton a teensy question.” Stiles glances at his fingers as the line goes quiet briefly. He hears a female voice -- Allison -- ask who it is, and Scott blatantly attempt to cover the bottom so Stiles doesn’t have to witness their conversation. 

“Just talking to Stiles. I love you!” says Scott with a sickening tone of affection. Stiles can practically hear Allison’s responding smile. 

“I love you too! Tell Stiles ‘hi’!” A pause, “And that we miss him at the loft.” 

“Of course!” 

“I’m going to check on Isaac. He’s making a killer lasagna tonight.” He sighs. Scott, the idiot, prolongs their conversation by asking what _flavor_ the lasagna is, if they wanted to share some of his chips, and ‘Allison, did you buy a new shampoo? It smells really nice.’ It’s all typical Scott things, especially when it comes to Allison, but no matter how much he loves them, Stiles doesn’t want to be awake at ten on a Saturday morning listening to Allison-Scott shenanigans. 

He clears his throat. There are a few thumps over the line, obviously Scott fumbling with the phone in surprise. After a while, he answers breathlessly. “Sorry!” 

“No prob’ dude. So my question--” _Hey Deaton, found a weird dagger and it has weird runes on it and I’m weirdly attracted to it?_ Yeah, no. “--where can I learn about runes? Is he up for lessons or something?” 

“Alright!” Scott sounds like an overeager puppy. “You’re gonna learn magic? You won’t regret it, dude! Then you and Lydia can be a magic-power couple!” 

“Nah, don’t wanna steal the Scott-Allison show.” he replies teasingly. Scott barks out a laugh. 

There’s a beat of silence, and Scott says, “Dude, I wanted to talk to you about the whole Pack thing. I feel like you’re not really involved nowadays, y’know? Everyone misses you.” 

Stiles inhales deep. This isn’t what he expected. “Did Allison talk to you about that?” 

“She’s good at stuff like that.” he can already see Scott sheepishly grinning. Maybe with that hopelessly besotted look he wears whenever someone mentions Allison. 

“It’s cool. I can understand the whole ‘human’s are weak’ spiel you guys were subtly implying. I get it; I’m no human with a crossbow or magic powers.” 

“Other than driving evil zombies into stuff with your Jeep.” adds Scott. Sometimes, Stiles could kiss Scott. A true brother right there. 

“Other than driving evil zombies into stuff with my Jeep.” he concedes with a grin. The hilt of the dagger presses against his thigh. He sighs contentedly, a pleasant warmth spreading through his body. It feels like home. 

“I gotta go man. I’ll talk to Deaton, okay? Text you the details later.” Scott says. Stiles wishes him a good breakfast-lasagna, and decides to hang up first. 

\---

Scott texts him back later. /Deaton can b cnvincd he says tlk 2 him aftr schl??/

/k. thx dude remind me 2 send u a gift basket l8r./

/np. Thats 4 u owe me now Stilinski/

/touche/

\---

On Monday, Stiles heads over to Deaton’s after school. Seniors get the last period off (as long as they’re passing their classes), so it works out. He parks, removes the dagger wrapped in styrofoam from his bag, and strides into the place. 

Deaton glances up from where he’s patching up a stray dog. “Stiles,” he says with a tilt of his head. Stiles doesn’t trust him too much, but there’s only so many friendly supernatural beings. He’ll take what he can get. 

“Found a dagger with some weird stuff.” he holds out the dagger. It’s not exactly a lie, so Stiles says it smoothly enough that Deaton’s curious look doesn’t morph into suspicion. Instead, he takes the dagger from Stiles’ grasp, gently removes the wrapping, and gives it a quick onceover. 

Stiles suggests, “Maybe you can shed some light on it? Then we could learn some runes and.... stuff?” The vet gives him a look mixed with exasperation and annoyance, both things Stiles has seen too much of to be affected by. 

“It’s imbued with soul magic.” Deaton says after a long moment. He turns the weapon over, eyes raking over the runes studiously. Stiles raises a brow, and he heaves a sigh. “Soul magic is raw magic. It’s hard to master, but it’s magic for those without a Spark, originating from the soul. Anything cast with this sort will have the presence of the caster, if that makes any sense. Likely, it feels foreign to you. Maybe as if you’re touching a stranger’s hand.” 

He nods soundlessly, because it _doesn’t_ feel foreign. Maybe he should bring that up. “What if it doesn’t feel foreign. Does that mean you _know_ the caster?” 

Deaton shakes his head. “No. It’s foreign because it’s not _your_ soul.” 

“Okay.” Stiles swallows some bile down. He anxiously taps his finger against his thigh. “But what if it doesn’t?” his voice pitches a little. 

“It’s either your soul, or a very compatible soul.” deadpans Deaton. He mumbles the next part in a dry tone paired with an offensive snort, “Your soulmate, you could say. If they exist.” 

“Thanks. So not dangerous?” 

“No.” 

Because Deaton’s quiet again, Stiles goes for a weak smile, “So how about those magic lessons?” 

\--- 

Stiles is apparently ve-ry compatible with life magic, according to Deaton. Plants just love him! Anything’ll bloom for him if he even vaguely wills it. Especially flowers. 

Then he wants to laugh, albeit hysterically, when he remembers what sort of Goddess Persephone was. 

\---

Scott seems to be putting forth his best foot in their relationship, because he’s there when Stiles comes home from Deaton’s. Allison and Isaac are nowhere to be seen. 

He nervously pipes up with a “Hey!” A large bag of potato chips practically obscures his puppy-face from view, and Stiles has to cock a smile at that. 

So he opens the door, gestures for him to come inside, and says, “Ready for game night, Scotty boy? Being a werewolf won’t save your hide.” 

And when Scott drops the bag of chips and beams big and bright at him, Stiles still kicks his ass. 

\---

He continues to go to Deaton’s after school. His dad doesn’t seem to mind, and even commends him on “helping out Scott and the animals”. However, there’s an attribute of mistrust to their conversations that Stiles hates, because it’s always there. Nowadays, it’s not as big --but the damage is there, and well, their relationship was mending for as long as he could stay out of trouble. Or out of murder scenes, really. 

On a plus side, Stiles is pretty sure the wizards from Harry Potter would be jealous of his weed-growing powers. 

\---

That’s when it all goes to shit, because Stiles wakes up on the forest ground, mud and nature’s debris clinging to his hair, clothes and skin. Nasty. It’s almost a shock when he sees Peter Hale sitting across from him, blood-stained and exhausted, but this is Peter, afterall. He knows Peter’s awake from the telltale blink of wary blue eyes, but somehow, he still yelps when the werewolf smiles at him. 

“This is weird.” he says instead of _what the fuck am I doing here or why are you here_. He almost gives himself a mental pat on the back. Peter’s eyes flicker with vague amusement and intrigue, but annoyance is his main forefront. Inside, Stiles is freaking out, but he forces himself to remain relaxed physically. Then again, his heartbeat is probably betraying him. 

“Yes it is.” Peter agrees, instead of pointing out Stiles’ renegade heartbeat. Then, as if speaking to a small child, he leans forward, cradling his chin with his hands, and smiles a smile with too much teeth. “Do you know why you’re here, Stiles?” 

“The woods love me.” Stiles tries. It comes out as a question. 

Instead, Peter says, “Do you know who took you, sweetheart?” 

“Rogue omegas? Witches?” Stiles raises a brow. 

“It’s actually witches,” he affirms with a twitch of his lips. “See, they need a Spark,” he casts a pointed look towards Stiles, “and an Alpha.” 

“I’m a Spark? ...You’re an Alpha?” then he adds, because antagonizing werewolves is apparently in his job description, “Again? Even after what happened the first time?”

Peter smiles mirthlessly at him. “I was on my way out of here, I assure you.” _I wouldn’t be caught dead here_ is left unsaid. “In fact, I was out of state last I checked.” 

“So they have pretty far range then. The witches.” 

“Yes.” 

“...What happened to you?” he dares to ask after another long moment. 

“I was caught and thrown in here to rot.” then, with a judging blue eye, “You’re not going to go running from help?” 

“Nah,” Stiles stands up -- _oof_ , his arm; those witches couldn’t have put him in a more comfortable position? -- and taps the tree trunk. A bright blue barrier briefly manifests, stretching over both their forms in a small dome. “Figured they probably wanted us in one place if they went through the trouble of kidnapping me.” he walks over to Peter, and crouches down, “And I don’t exactly think you’d be here if you could help it.” 

Peter is quiet for a moment, his eyes flickering with some unidentifiable emotion. Then he smirks, “I knew I liked you for a reason.” 

Stiles ignores how his ears heat up in favor of withdrawing the dagger from within the folds of his coat. “Guess they didn’t pat us down,” he offhandedly comments . The blade hums when he touches it, and Stiles forces down the plethora of feelings that accompany the object. He thinks he sees Peter’s eyes widen, but when he looks up, the werewolf’s face doesn’t betray a thing. Appraising Peter’s slowly healing form, he uses the blade to cut off a strip of clothing. He cautiously raises the strip towards a bleeding cut that toes between Peter’s hairline and forehead in a long, jagged manner. 

Peter tenses, but doesn’t move, so he presses it against his head. He hisses, but remains silent, so Stiles gets to work. He dabs it, cleaning the wound of dirt and crusted blood, then folds the strip over so he can move to another laceration. 

“Why do you think they want us here?” Stiles casually asks. His hands shake despite the carelessness that colors his voice, and Peter raises his eyes to his. They’re just as cool and calculating as they’ve always been. 

“What do you think, Stiles?” 

Without missing a beat, “They want your Alpha Spark.” 

“Good, what else?” drawls Peter with a deft roll of his eyes, “Why would they want a Spark, dear?” 

“Don’t call me that! And I didn’t even know I was a Spark until just now!” he bites his lip because Peter doesn’t reply, “They’d want a Spark because they’re rare. And powerful, presumably.” 

Nodding, the werewolf grabs the discarded dagger. He drags it over a finger, eyes flaring red. “Do you know what this is?” 

“A dagger?” He fixes him with a ludicrous look. 

“I’m sure your lessons with Deaton have granted you _some_ merit.” And _okay_ , things were going in a creepy direction again. Warily, Stiles scoots his ass a few inches away. Peter smirks, “Rest assured, I haven’t been stalking you, Stiles. It’s a matter of being smart.” 

“Suuuure, dude…” says Stiles. 

“Firstly, your Spark was dormant. These witches wouldn’t be able to do anything, frankly, if you hadn’t been messing around with spells. Second, that dagger is mine. Or at least,” a pause, “in spirit.” 

The puzzle pieces come together, and Stiles wants to scream. If what Peter said had any merit, then the asshole was basically _his fucking_ soulmate. Stiles licks his lips. 

“S...so they kidnapped you and…” He feels numb. 

“Forced me to do some soul magic?” Peter finishes with a wry grin. Too much teeth right there. 

“Yeah..?” it comes out as a question, but Stiles can’t be brought to care. Observing Peter from the corner of his eye seems to be a pastime now. “Sucks for you.” 

“Right?” he says dryly. 

A frustrated huff slips from his lips, “I dunno, this just seems too convenient. I mean, how would they know that I’d go to Deaton about this and spontaneously decide to learn magic?” And how would they know that the dagger had an... _appeal?_

“Have you ever read a book?” Peter’s eyes close, and Stiles immediately latches onto the curve of his jawline, the length of his lashes. “What is a Spark, Stiles? Come on, I know you can do better than that!” his eyes open again, and latch onto Stiles’ own. 

Coloring, Stiles deigns to fiddling with the hem of his trousers. “Fuck you.” he grumbles. He knows, though. Sparks are naturally drawn to supernatural occurrences -- they’re drawn to magic like bees to honey, moths to light. Well, shit. That was all him then. He might as well have had “Newbie Spark” written on his forehead. 

Peter, with a mirth-filled smirk, purrs, “I’d love to, but first, we should really be working on an escape route. Before tomorrow, of course.” 

How did he forget about the full moon? Stiles groans. Where was his brain!? 

“Have you seen them?” he demands, “The witches?” 

“Not since I was thrown in here. They haven’t been around for a few weeks.” drawls Peter. “If you’re looking for a description, one of them is a _big, burly, construction worker_.” 

Wh--Stiles snorts. Unable to help the grin on his face, he stands up and marches around in a small circle. There’s no mountain ash, so that’s one issue he doesn’t have to worry about, but he has to do something about the barrier. “I’m going to try something.” he says. Fight fire with fire. 

He reaches his hands above his head, as far as he can reach, and true to it’s roots, it appears. Closing his eyes, Stiles inhales deep, then out. Alright, visualize the Spark. Be the Spark. He’s got this. Stiles pictures the core of his being, a glittering star of gold, with branches of silver extending through every part of his body. And gently, he coaxes out two small flares of pure, unbridled energy down two parallel branches. 

_Just get rid of the wall_ , he thinks, desperately, _Get rid of it get rid of it getrid of it--_

Then he feels it, a jolt of energy that flicks through his fingers all at once, and he pushes, _hard_. His head begins to burn, the backs of his eyes throbbing, but Stiles _knows_ that if he can just get through the barrier, then it’ll be over. He can’t help the pained gasp that escapes him, but someone’s there, quick enough. Peter, he faintly registers, with his hand on Stiles’ shoulder--a warm constant that unknowingly grounds him. 

“..go. Let go, sweetheart.” Eventually, the world reappears around him. At some point, his eyes had opened, because the dark is abruptly gone and Peter is standing not even an inch away from him, head pressed against his. Surprisingly enough, Stiles isn't too bothered by it; in fact, he gets a-- a _right_ feeling, like Peter encompasses safety and warmth. Finally, Stiles lets out a shuddering breath and drops his hands to his sides. 

“Holy shit.” Stiles breathes after a few minutes. Peter chuckles. 

“Congratulations,” the werewolf winks, “Now we're truly all alone.” 

“Nah.” says Stiles, but it has no real heat. As much as Stiles should be fending off creepy werewolves right now, he can't bring himself to care. He destroyed a fucking barrier with his own two hands, so he should be allowed to flirt and joke and laugh all he wants. But… priorities. Right. “We should probably get out of here.” A quick once over has him raising a brow, “Dude, Peter, you okay to walk?” 

Peter taps two fingers against a small cut, as if to say _“do you think these will stop me”_ , then slowly walks in the opposite direction. Cocky asshole.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago, but after rereading it and adding to it lil by lil, I figured I'd share it, just in case, and also cuz I kinda like it. This is kind of where I would vent my pent-up GIVE ME STETER ADVENTURES where they bleed and bond energy lol. Hope y'all like it! I'm hoping I can fit this all into 3-4 chapters, so we will see! :) Have a great day everyone!


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